


Afterthought

by ShyGirl1918



Category: RWBY
Genre: Consider This an Extra Post-Credits Scene., Don't Examine This Too Closely, I Don't Even Know, I Made Myself Cry, Introspection, My First AO3 Post, Not Shippy, Other, Ozpin (RWBY) Lives, Post-Volume 3 (RWBY), Universe Alteration, Why Did I Write This?, Wizard of Oz References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 19:53:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyGirl1918/pseuds/ShyGirl1918
Summary: "You won't win. Not this time." Ozpin's vow was quietly steeled, his slender fingers curling into a fist. "You'll never be finished with us. Not now, not ever. If you think that we'll just be tossed aside once we break, you're gravely mistaken."After the Fall of Beacon, a wounded Ozpin reflects on his choices, their effects, and the uncertainty of Remnant's future.





	Afterthought

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! So, I've been lurking on this site for a while and now that I'm officially a member, I thought I'd publish one of my drabbles for feedback. I've never published any of my fanfiction before, and I realize this is quite old, but this was my coping mechanism after the finale of Volume 3; took me about 10 minutes, start to finish. I'm currently debating whether or not to expand it, since it's obvious AU-material in light of Volume 6's conclusion. Please feel free to comment or critique below. :)

He woke to a breaking dawn and the smell of hay in his nostrils, drenched in a cold sweat from head to toe. His dreams had been haunted by visions of burning buildings and seas of dismembered corpses. Screams ringing in his ears, flashes of viridian and vermilion dancing in the dark like fireworks...

  
  
He had walked more battlefields than he could count, but the Fall of Beacon was almost worse than anything he could imagine. The Kingdom and the Academy he'd sworn to defend had been shattered from within, right under his nose, and he was powerless till the last minute.

  
  
The battle in the vault should've spelled his end, yet when the blinding white light dissipated after that final clash, he'd awoken in the rubble with the taste of ashes in his mouth, suit bloody from the glass shards piercing his torso. Qrow was the one to find him, Glynda the one to heal him. 16 wounds in total, five of which should have been fatal once his Aura was completely drained, bur somehow he found a way to cling to life.  


 

Miracles didn't come without a price. Ozpin had learned that long ago, and the cost of that lesson still rent at his heart, years afterward. Once his physical condition had stabilized, he'd been imprisoned by the Council, stripped of his rank indefinitely and banished from Vale until further notice. A chance meeting with Qrow at Patch filled in the blanks.

 

"Divide and conquer," he had told the younger Branwen twin once his rambled speech subsided into a painful silence. "Keep an eye on Ruby. I'll put in a good word with James, see what he can do for Miss Xiao Long. Despite the censures placed upon me, I swear I'll do my part. Until then..."

 

"Same place?" Qrow's crimson eyes were intensely bloodshot from fatigue, lavender rings extolling his sleepless nights. His grip on the silver flask was unimpeded; his hand didn't even shake as he guzzled the contents.

 

"You'll know where to find me."

 

Exhaling heavily and carding a hand through his tousled silver hair, he stood within the darkened barn, grabbing his knapsack as he headed towards the doors.

 

The Gales were good people; an elderly couple and their young niece. They'd sheltered him without complaint, oblivious to his true identity. His time at their farm was the longest he had stayed in one place since departing from Vale. He'd insisted on repaying their generosity through manual labor, and the grueling work was worth the information he'd gleaned from listening to seemingly banal conversation. Even in Mistral, with the CCT down, the events at Beacon hadn't gone unnoticed.

 

He ran an absent finger over his clavicle as he laced his collar, the scar tissue puckered and tinged white. Glynda's salve had knitted the flesh together seamlessly, but the scars continued to burn, as if his muscles and nerves were still impaled by the glass. Yet as the sunlight broke through the gaps in the weathered wooden doors, the jagged gashes on his skin took on a faint golden glow.

 

_Kintsugi_ , Ozpin observed coolly. An ancient Mistrali art; the belief that there was beauty in life's imperfections. That the history of a thing's past was just as important as its present, regardless of the passage of time. Priests, royalty, artisans -- when their porcelain broke, they wouldn't hide the cracks or pretend that it'd never been broken. They'd mend them with gold instead, showcasing them.

 

Beauty in imperfections.. The analogy was quite ironic. In that light, perhaps even the worst scars could be displayed with pride rather than concealed out of shame...

 

"You won't win. Not this time." Ozpin's vow was quietly steeled, his slender fingers curling into a fist. "You'll never be finished with us. Not now, not ever. If you think that we'll just be tossed aside once we break, you're gravely mistaken."

  


  



End file.
